Twenty two year old Amanda smith works for the riches eligible bachelor in twenty six different countries. Its difficult to be a billionaire PA while going to college, but she like the challenge. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Miss smith I need that damn file now, or you can find your self another job. Yes sir. Knock...knock.. Coming Your files sir. Place it on my desk and leave. I roll my eyes and did as he said. Miss smith, he turned around and stalk me with his eye . Like how a predictor would its prey. Y- yes S-sir. Did you just roll your eyes at me. What! How the hell did he know that, he wasn't even looking at me. No sir I did not. So what miss smith your calling me a laired now. Noamnotcallingyoualairdsir. Holy shit, what was that. I have never in my hole time of my living,to what I know ever lost my speech like that. Well maybe it's because it the first time a guy has ever been this close to you before in your life. What the hell, who are you? Your conscience you idiot. Ohhhh ok , hold up if am a idiot that makes you one too.... Am I making you nervous miss smith. Holy shit I forgot I was dealing with this stuck up son of a bleacher. No sir you don't , if you will excuse me I have work to do. Well you can forget about work and just do me instead. What did I hear him right. WHAT WAS THAT SIR? Nothing! Carry one before I fire you and find someone who is capable to do your job. Yes sir, of course sir. You asshole am the only one capable of standing your pain in the ass attitude.
Chapter 1 Betrayal and lies
Ever wake up with a feeling that you know how your day is going to unfold? That's how I felt when I opened my eyes to the gentle sunlight filtering through my lavender curtains. There was an unsettling sense that something was amiss, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. It hovered in the back of my mind like a dark cloud threatening rain.
I tried to shake off the feeling as I climbed out of my queen-size bed and made my way to the bathroom, hoping the routine of my morning rituals would dispel my unease. Standing before the mirror, I gave myself a pep talk, a habit I've developed over the years to bolster my spirits. Shedding my clothes, I stepped into the warm embrace of the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, washing away the tension knotting my muscles. It was a brief respite, but it helped calm my nerves.
After what seemed like an eternity under the soothing stream, I reluctantly turned off the shower and wrapped myself in a plush towel, steam billowing around me. As I went through the motions of my morning routine, dressing in comfortable clothes, I made a mental note to steer clear of Aunt Caroline and Tiffany. Those two were a volatile combination, capable of turning any day into a battleground.
Descending the stairs cautiously, as if entering enemy territory, I scanned left and right, ensuring the coast was clear of the dreaded duo. Safely reaching the ground floor, I couldn't help but do a small victory dance, a silent celebration of making it downstairs unscathed. Little did I know, fate had other plans.
My stomach rumbled loudly, a reminder of the urgent need to appease my hunger. I made a beeline for the kitchen, exchanging greetings with the kitchen staff who were already hard at work. Opening the fridge, I surveyed the ingredients at my disposal, contemplating what culinary delight to whip up for breakfast. Despite having a kitchen staff at my beck and call, I preferred to cook for myself. It kept me grounded, connected to the simple joys of life, and honored the memory of my grandmother who had taught me the art of cooking.
I recalled the first time she taught me, a stubborn sixteen-year-old who couldn't boil water without setting off the smoke alarm. My grandmother had thrown a fit, incredulous that a young lady of my age couldn't cook. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," she'd chided, prompting my flippant reply about hiring a maid. That had earned me a stern lecture on self-sufficiency and a crash course in kitchen skills that I'd never forget.
Now, armed with bacon, eggs, sausage, and pancake mix, I decided on a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs with blueberry pancakes. Cooking was therapeutic for me, a way to channel my energy and express my creativity. I made enough to share with the kitchen staff, who had become accustomed to my culinary escapades. They often teased me about opening my own restaurant, but I brushed off the idea with a laugh. Secretly, I relished the thought.
As part of our unspoken agreement, I cooked whenever time allowed, and in return, they handled the cleanup discreetly. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement that allowed me to maintain some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos of family dynamics. Finishing my meal, I handed over my plate to Miss Ann, the head cook, and thanked them all for their help before retreating from the kitchen.
That's when I heard raised voices coming from the sitting room. Curiosity piqued, I approached cautiously, eavesdropping shamelessly on the heated conversation unfolding within.
"It's time to kick that girl out, Melvin. She's been bleeding us dry long enough," Aunt Caroline's shrill voice cut through the air like a knife.
"Honey, she's my niece, and I have a responsibility to her as well," Uncle Melvin's voice, usually calm and measured, sounded strained.
"I don't care! It's either her or me and Tiffany. You choose!" Caroline's ultimatum hung heavy in the air, thick with tension.
"She's family, Caroline. I can't just-" Uncle Melvin's protest was cut off sharply.
"She's not even your daughter! I heard her tell Tiffany to stop being a gold digger and get out of her house. That ungrateful brat!" Caroline's accusation hit me like a slap in the face. I couldn't believe she would stoop so low, fabricating lies to undermine me.
Heart pounding, I turned away, unable to bear hearing any more. Tears threatened to spill over, but I blinked them back furiously. How could my own family turn against me so easily? I had thought this house, my parents' legacy, was my sanctuary, but now it felt like a prison closing in around me.
I retreated to the sanctuary of my thoughts, momentarily forgetting my manners in my distress. "I'm Amanda Windworth," I introduced myself mentally, trying to steady my shaking hands. "The only child of the late Richard and Nicole Windworth. Majoring in business studies, a humble heart with an iron will when challenged."
I took after my mother in looks, inheriting her light brown eyes, full lips, pale skin, and curvaceous figure. My straight, dark hair was a legacy from my father, a reminder of the loving home I had lost.
I realized I had lingered too long in the hallway, overhearing things not meant for my ears. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I hurried away, needing to escape the suffocating atmosphere of betrayal and lies.